


When I Touch Him, My Fingertips Don't Burn

by ryry_peaches



Series: Carry On Countdown Fills 2019 [1]
Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Carry On Countdown 2019, Ficlet, Fluff, M/M, NOV 25 - Sun/Moon, Sun/Moon Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-26
Updated: 2019-11-26
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:41:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21570061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryry_peaches/pseuds/ryry_peaches
Summary: Baz finds a new metaphor for Simon.  Simon is sleepy and embarrassed.  Fiona is Fiona.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Series: Carry On Countdown Fills 2019 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1555318
Kudos: 40
Collections: Carry On Countdown 2019





	When I Touch Him, My Fingertips Don't Burn

**Author's Note:**

> Fill for the Carry On Countdown prompt: Sun/Moon. Just fluff here today, folks.

Simon used to be the sun. He _did._ I shared a bedroom with his great burning aura for my entire adolescence.

He used to be the sun, but now I'm looking directly at him and my eyes don't hurt — what does that mean? What does it mean that when I touch him, my fingertips don't burn?

I'm touching him right now; I'm sitting on Fiona's couch and he's lying across it with his head in my lap, his wings curled around his torso like a blanket. I can't stop twirling his hair around my fingers. It's soft, if a little oily.

"I _still_ can't believe it," Fiona says, almost viciously. "The Mage's kid. Basil — what were you _thinking?"_

I take a deep breath because I'm trying not to be sharp with family as of late — I _did_ accidentally bring a magickal nuclear bomb of a person home for a sleepover last year and destroy my family's home, so I figure I owe them a measure of gentle treatment from here on out.

It comes out a little sharply anyway: "He's _not_ the Mage's heir. He's not anyone's heir." It might be cruel to point out that Simon is an orphan, but better he came from shit-Normal-nowhere, London, than to be the sole heir of a fanatical authoritarian.

"Baz…" Fiona sighs, and I'm glad she had the tact to wait for Simon to fall asleep before starting in. (And that Simon has little enough tact to fall asleep the first time I bring him to my aunt's house.) "It's not that i'm not happy you're happy, darling," she says, and I hide a snort — Fiona only calls me darling when she's about to condescend to me — "but surely there's blokes better suited to you? Better suited to the —"

"To the Pitch name?" I sigh. Suddenly, I envy Simon's borderline narcoleptic napping abilities — I'd love to pass out right now and avoid this whole conversation. "I think I right dragged that straight through the mud when I became a vampire."

"Baz!"

"I _am,_ Fiona! We can’t ignore it forever! I burn in sunlight and I drink blood and I try my best to be a _real boy_ and maybe I'm a monster — but forgive me if I've fallen in love with a boy who can look me in the eye and acknowledge that I'm all of those and not think of me as a monster at all!" I'm whisper-yelling because I don't want to wake Simon, but he suddenly lurches awake with a yelp anyway, and when I look away from my aunt’s stricken eyes, I realize that I've been gripping a handful of his curls in a tense fist.

"Baz?" He mutters blearily, and then bolts upright. "Jesus Christ, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to drift —"

"Sh," I interrupt, taking his hand and tugging him against my side. We're rarely this touchy-feely at home; he's allowing me to cuddle him now because Fiona makes him nervous, and the most monstrous thing about me right now is that I'm glad she does if it means he'll let me hug him close. "It's alright, love, Fiona's not the judgemental type."

She laughs, and Simon frowns; his wings spread — sometimes he can’t control them, when he’s nervous or confused or half-asleep, and he’s all three right now — one scraping my back as it curves around my shoulders and the other knocking over an ugly old lamp on Fiona's end table. It's wire and plastic, and clatters to the ground but doesn't break. "Sorry," he says again, retracting them; the edge scrapes my back the other way. He looks blushy and miserable, but when I look at Fiona, her lips are pursed tightly.

I meet her eyes, and it sends both of us — we just start laughing like little kids. Simon looks offended at first, which makes me laugh harder, but he breaks quickly enough — I think he's just relieved not to have ruined the evening, such as it is — and laughs too.

His laugh, rare as it is, emboldens me; I reach forward and trace light fingertips over his smiling lips. The lamp on the floor still shines up, illuminating his face from beneath, and that's the moment I realize it. Watching his shining face reflect lamplight onto me, highlighted by our mingled laughter. The cover of night, him still ten percent asleep, my crazy, crazy-protective aunt watching us from her weathered armchair.

And maybe I should have realized it the first night I felt his magic, when he took me to a starfield, but he was still so crazy-hot then, burning a path through the world.

These days, I think we've found something less destructive between us. Something almost symbiotic. Yin and yang, as it were.

Because I might be a child of the night, but Simon Snow is the fucking moon.

**Author's Note:**

> Visit me at fourgetregret.tumblr.com :^)


End file.
